


i hope it's love. i'm trying really hard to make it love.

by the_ocean_weekender



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: 1970s, Canon Compliant, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Polyamory, Romance, Sick Character, emetophobic ppl please avoid this one, you decide if you ship them or not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-10-01 16:49:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20341183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ocean_weekender/pseuds/the_ocean_weekender
Summary: For the prompt: Roger is a drama queen, even amongst a band made of drama queens. But one thing he isn’t dramatic about in the least? When he’s sick and feels vulnerable, and tries to act fine to compensate. Spoiler: it never fucking works. Spoiler spoiler: it may all work out for the best.





	i hope it's love. i'm trying really hard to make it love.

**Author's Note:**

> title from that Richard siken poem. you know the one  
it's been a while since I watched the movie and I can't actually remember the timeline overly well, but I don't think it affects the fic too much  
this can be seen as ot4 love or just familial love, completely up to you although it was written with the intention of romance

When he wakes up, he at first thinks he’s on a boat. The next thing he realises is that it isn’t moving. And then, _only_ then, does he remember he’s in his bed and he had a lecture tomorrow (today?) and maybe it wasn’t a good idea to sit next to the guy so pale he looked green yesterday (two days ago?) even if that had been the only empty seat. _Fuck_. Roger opens his eyes and has to look at the clock several times; it’s upside down but he thinks it says 12:03am. _Bloody fuck_. The neon green digits hum peripherally as he pushes the top half of his body off the floor- not the clock but the face of John’s digital watch, his wrist hanging over the edge of the sofa.

Roger would curse his past self for sleeping on the floor, but at the minute he wants nothing more than to lie back down on it and sleep until an acceptable hour. Two in the afternoon, maybe, or three. Whichever time when the hands of the clock will have swept away the cloud hanging over his head and in his chest. He stands upright and the living room turns on its head _oh shit_ and there’s no time to think that he needs to go to the bathroom, only enough time to actually go to the bathroom, and then his body- fucking curse his goddamn body to all fucking seven fucking hells- apparently can’t throw up. Can’t grasp hold of the stuff he feels at the bottom of his throat and actually do something about it.

Roger tries to make himself retch but it only sounds like a fake noise he makes whenever one of the others says something particularly sappy and he doesn’t bother trying again. If he had the strength, he would swear every profanity and insult he knew into the toilet bowl, except he hasn’t got the energy to even take his shirt off. Instead, he rucks it up halfway and lies spread out on the floor, pressing his aching stomach into the cool tiles in the hope of some relief, occasionally replacing one of his regular-scheduled breaths with a high-pitched whine full of self-pity.

The thing is: Roger doesn’t like being sick. He wants one (or all) of the others to comer searching for him and at the same time wants nothing less. The thing is: Roger can drum, can fight, flirt, fuck, get explosively angry and deadly passionate, go from zero to sixty at the drop of a hat and bully affection onto his friends. But he doesn’t know how to be vulnerable, thinks perhaps he’s missed his chance as every time he feels tears starting his mind switched immediately to anger in a form self-preservation that’ll only harm him in the end.

And, well, it’s silly but Roger kind of doesn’t want to be vulnerable in front of the other three. Partially because he’s _Roger Taylor_, firework and fury, which is a reputation in and of itself. Mostly, though, it’s because he can’t stop thinking the others _won’t_ help him; the other three band members asleep in the living room after a night of shitty TV and raucous laughter have all gotten sick over the course of their friendship at some point or another but... this is different. Roger’s different. He _knows_ he’s a drama queen and he _knows_ he can annoy the others no end and he- he just doesn’t want to be too much. Doesn’t want to be rejected and wouldn’t know what to do with their affection if he got it. Caring for others is no problem- he’ll bully them into taking care of themselves without thinking twice. Yet being cared for makes him feel shy and embarrassed and shameful and bothersome, worrying about seeming too cliché and clingy and at the same time unwilling to let them out of his sigh for feat they’ll talk about how annoying he is behind his back.

There’s also the fact that the four of them have slowly been sliding one group hug at a time into a- a- a foursome? Roger’s pretty sure that’s not the right word, but- all four of them, together, in a way that isn’t the band? Except the band _is_ them, they are the band, and Brian still hasn’t quite stopped mentioning the bacon he threw in his face (God, he feels so guilty about that- what if he burned him?) John and Freddie haven’t quite stopped teasing him about it (he’s been trying not to be so quick to anger now). Just… Roger knows he’s too much for a lot of people. Knows he’s a lot of people’s regret, and he doesn’t want to be too much for Brian and John and Freddie.

He loves them.

The revelation should be painful or hard or new- or at least add some other pain to his list of churning symptoms, but it doesn’t even warrant an extra whine. Part of being Roger Taylor now is that he loves his friends; a love that had changed into some sort of romance as naturally as the sun sets. He snorts. _I didn’t even get to have a gay panic_. Then feels bad- surely being king of self-acceptance isn’t an appropriate thing to feel bad about?

It’s a difficult question no matter what state he’s in and he’s not about to try and find an answer whilst spread-eagled on the bathroom floor with his nose an inch away from the toilet. At least they’re all relatively good at cleaning for four twenty-something students, because otherwise _Jesus_ he couldn’t cope with any horrid smells. His body is barely handling being horizontal.

Outside on the landing, a floorboard creaks and then comes a knock. “Roger? You about done in there?”

Deacy.

With one ear pressed to the ground, Roger can just about make out the creaks and groans of Brian and Freddie cheering up what’s left of the takeaway pizza boxes; clearing up and getting ready for bed. He manages to get to his knees-

“Roger!” the voice sounds exasperated now, accompanied b y a hard knock that rattles the door in its frame.

Instinctually, Roger feels his hackles go up. “Fucking _wait_!” he yells, though the lack of the energy makes it sound more of a snarl. With a huff he runs the cold tap, briefly, running his wet fingers through the roots of his hair and telling himself he’ll wash it tomorrow before his 9am lecture and making sure he switches the light off before he opens the door and shoves past Jon in a way that deliberately makes his hair a curtain over his face. So _what_ if he’ll look like an overgrown poodle from the other boy’s perspective? Roger doesn’t care. He’s Roger fucking Taylor and he knows he looks good and could have anyone he wanted.

For appearances sake he mutters some swear words that John doesn’t even have the decency to return, stomping off to his and Brian’s shared bedroom before said-Brian can see him with the lights on.

When he caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror he had to check to make sure it was him. He looks as shit as he feels, with no way of hiding it. Exhausted, he strips to his underwear and buries himself in his bed, certain Brian will dig him out in the morning if he’s forgotten to set the alarm, trying to remember the other three boys’ schedules for the week to work out if he’ll be able to sneak out the flat without them noticing in the morning. Though he knows the others’ schedules off by heart, he cannot for the life of him remember a single class any of them take right now- he only knows tomorrow is Monday because Sunday is telly and pizza night and the looming dread in his chest gives it away. He flinches when Brian comes in and turns the lights on. “What the fuck, May!”

“Sorry, some of us don’t have night-vision so we can get changed in the dark.” His tones drops into an icier one as he stops by Roger’s bed and sees the clothes strewn over the floor. “Or magical powers so we can put things away without getting up.”

“Oh, piss off,” Roger mutters, turning over and burying himself deeper under the covers, which is a mistake because his naked limbs knock together and make him aware of how cold he is, on this summer day. _Bollocks_ the sigh blows his fringe away from his eyes and adds to the stifling hot atmosphere around his face and only succeeds in making him feel even worse. 

Over his head, Brian can be heard making one of those noises he makes- one that is equal parts confusion and disgust. “The fuck is wrong with you, Roger?”

His heart stops in his chest; speaking quickly enough Brian can’t guess anything’s wrong is a challenge. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ve been in a _mood_ all day, and now you’ve gone to bed at a reasonable time.” His voices pitches lower. “Do you have a headache?”

Okay, so there had been one time when Roger _had_ been an arsehole all day and given in and mumbled to him later on that his head hurt, but that was _one time_ and dint give him the right to ask that every time.

“Yeah,” Roger snaps before he realises what’s he’s saying. “It’s called Brian May.” He doesn’t give the hurt voice a chance to say anything. “There’s something wrong with _you_! Aren’t you always telling me to go to bed earlier?”

On the other side of the duvet obscuring his head he hears a huff and the shuffle of feet, a muttered insult he only hears a snatch of- “don’t know why I bother”- and the door slams shut, so Brian’s gone but he’s a bastard and left the light on. Through the tiniest chink in the duvet, Roger glares dolefully at the light switch, willing the power to go out because he’s not sure if his stomach will stay at the bottom of his ribcage if he gets up. Brian is notorious for his super-quick five minutes showers, but he’s still asleep before Brian comes back.

***

By some grace of god he gets out of the flat and into the lecture hall before anyone can question why he looks like _Casper the Friendly Ghost_. The second his arse touches the seat, however, he feels the sudden burning need to escape to the bathroom and leaves as quickly as he came, feeling like a complete and utter twat as he passes his professor in the hall. He would like to tell anyone who asks that he’s fine, except nothing has ever felt as good as the cool rim of the toilet seat against his forehead. He sobs and it brings a wave of bile that simultaneously feels like it lasts an hour yet also leaves him nowhere near empty. The taste in his mouth is disgusting- like a junkie’s carpet or a dog shit cigarette- perhaps he ought to dig his notebook out his bag and try to write some lyrics between retches, _Pink Floyd_ wrote their best hits whilst out of their minds, didn’t they?

At the very least he can’t come up with anything worse than _I’m in love with my car_. He laughs. It hurts his stomach. He pukes. It hurts his head. He blinks and he is halfway home to the flat, he’s forgotten his bag in the toilet cubicle, he _may_ have forgotten to flush the loo, he blinks, he is at the front door and knocking to be let in because he’s forgotten if not his keys then at least where he’s sequestered them on his person. Laughter tinkles out over the air above his head as he sinks lower and lover, face first into the door- are the other three inside having fun now he’s not around? Suddenly he doesn’t want to go in anywhere- the cool breeze against his back feels like a kinder heaven.

“Coming!” Freddie calls and Roger hears him walking down the hall- more like stamping, because he found these platform boots on the stall the other week and loves them. Each noise hits his head and he groans and lurches forward as the door opens. Arms catch him- too hot, too hot, the arms are too hot. “Good heavens, darling, you look like shit.” Roger opens his mouth. Vomit goes everywhere. Roger goes to his knees. The world goes white. He’ll breathe when he stops puking, he bargains with himself, feeling more than seeing Freddie kneel alongside him.

Roger is fairly certain there’s vomit in his hair- it matches the puddle he can feel in his lap. His stomach is yanked back towards his spine like a parachute opening and he retches but there’s nothing coming up. He’s through, now, he’s completely empty. He’s fairly sure not even the miracle that is Freddie Mercury can have escaped the mess he’s just made of the hall. Roger opens his mouth and is extremely grateful that only the word “Sorry” comes out.

Thousands of beads and bracelets chime as Freddie shrugs, “Never mind, darling, I hated that wallpaper anyway.”

It’s pathetic to say, but he finds he needs to say it anyway- the idea of swallowing the words back down just make him feel even sicker, “Not- I’m not hung-over.”

A soothing noise and a hand runs through his hair and over the back of his neck, “I know, dear. You feel like you have a temperature.”

Before he can reply, Deacy’s put a bucket down in front of him on the one tiny part of the carpet that isn’t covered in his puke. He gags and it tears against his throat with how dry it is. When Deacy steps back, his eyes are kind and Roger kind of hates him. he snaps out of it only when the front door opens and hits his feet and feels a tidal wave of relief too huge for his tired body wash over him. Brian’s come home, plastic _Sainsbury’s_ bags in hand- the three of them weren’t together without him after all…

Swear words fall around him and Brian drops the bags on his foot and Roger whimpers and tries to swear back but can’t quite manage it and Freddie’s arm tightens over his shoulders and everything hurts, everything hurts. By this point it’s been long enough for the sick to soak through the fabric and he can feel the wetness on his skin, _like a soggy biscuit_.

In the midst of the babble of the other three’s voices, Roger manages to life his head. “I think I left puke in the toilet,” he says. All eyes snap to him.

Freddie strokes his hair back from his face and Brian clambers over his legs to come and stand in front of him next to John, who says, “No you didn’t. I was the first one in the bathroom after you and it was clean.”

“Oh.”

He remembers, no, it was the uni toilets, too late. “So you _did_ feel sick last night?” there’s no triumph in Brian’s voice. Only concern. It makes Roger shrink.

“Why didn’t you tell us, darling?” asks Freddie, eyes darting from him to Brian to John and back again.

“Why did you go to uni?” that’s John and Roger leans forward as far as he can manage out of range of his and Freddie’s knees and projectile vomits again. Some of it goes in the bucket. The weakness sparks a flurry around him- hands and warmth and touching and soft calls of his name, hands on his back and in his hair and in his vomit- he’s got vomit in his hair, his _hair_, he loves his hair, he heaves again and there’s tears with it. Roger hisses breath through his teeth, a cat being petted by too many people and too weak to do anything about it, a burning pit of embarrassment curdling in his stomach. He wraps his arms around his middle and refuses to look up from his knees. The others are too kind to understand.

“Right,” Brian says. “He needs to go to the sofa.”

“If it’s appendicitis he needs the hospital.”

“Even Roger couldn’t out-stubborn appendicitis. Didn’t he say there’s a bug going round his class?”

“Great, then we’ll all get it.”

“Then we’ll all better be on the sofa,” Brian raises his voice and that decides things. For all his humiliation Roger takes no part in the horrendous, disgusting job that is cleaning up the hallway and moves only when three sets of hands force him to his feet and stop him from doubling over. He opens his eyes. Sees the hall. There’s even some on the walls, for Christ’s sake.

“No,” he moans, the word drawn out and low. “No, don’t touch me.”

“Sssh,” soothes John in his ear before he feels Brian’s hand beneath his knees and he’s swept up into a bridal carry. “Bucket,” he and John say at the same time and Freddie quickly arranges it between Roger’s knees, Brian’s elbows and Roger’s mouth. There’s still some vomit at the bottom and it reminds him of half-cooked scrambled eggs

“Shush,” that’s Brian this time, treading so carefully Roger didn’t even realise they had started moving. Trying to raise his head away from the rim of the bucket proves impossible, a fact Brian seems to take note of as e says, “Fred take- come here- you?” and then sits on the sofa without putting Roger down. What he does is this: he sits on the sofa, puts Roger’s head in his lap, puts the bucket between his feet, makes sure Roger can puke into the bucket without actually having to move an inch, encourages Roger to stretch out a little, settles in for the long ride

Surprisingly no disgusted comments can be heard from the hall; not even one horrified glance is shot his way as John and Freddie go back and forth in front of them with various cleaning supplies and occasionally stop somewhere to the left of his head to converse with Brian in inaudible voices. There’s a clang and Roger moans and vomit falls out of his mouth. Brian swears and pulls the bucket closer with his feet. A red-hot hand rubs circles into his back. One hand takes the bucket away and another tugs at his arm as Brian pushes and his limbs are manoeuvred awkwardly but gently into a dry change of clothes and the worse of the vomit is cleaned from his straggly hair and tied into a lanky ponytail away from his face. Roger moans again and it comes out more like a sob.

“Hush,” the voice, whoever it is, is soft like a cloud, curving round each syllable like a perfect white cloud. The hand hasn’t stopped rubbing his back. Radio crackles and a snatch of ‘ibuprofen?’ and then Brian’s warmth is much closer, his mouth nearly touching his ear. “Roger?” he asks, in his voice that is perfect for soothing tones Roger can’t bear it, yet also can’t bring himself to snap and snarl irrationally until the universe rights itself.

Opening his mouth again might not be a good idea right now.

“Does your stomach hurt?” the question warps and he can’t understand a word Brian’s just said, or why Deacy’s stopped what he’s doing and is looking across the room with him with wide eyes. Whatever Brian’s just said, Freddie repeats; ‘...hurt’ and that’s all he hears and Roger nods, hiding away in the rough texture of jeans so he doesn’t have to face the world any longer. _Everything_ hurts. He feels empty of everything and also dangerously close to spewing again. “’S alright, Rog,” there’s that hand in his hair again. Making sure he doesn’t fall off the sofa, most likely. John’s voice joins high above, rolling in like thunder and then Freddie’s on top of that, murmuring together in the push and pull of sea eddies.

Raising his head, Roger sees all three of them have haloes and- okay, so he’s not quite so out of it enough to believe that’s anything but the living room lights and the position he’s lying in, but that means he’s also not out of it enough to be delirious when he says “I love you.”

They all stop. Roger tries to think past the taste in his mouth. “I love you,” he repeats abruptly. “Not just-“ he realises he’s holding Brian’s hand and clumsily grabs Freddie’s and John’s with his other. They rush to steady him, worried he’ll tip off the edge of the cushions. “I think,” Roger tries again, feeling like a deer in headlights. “I think I love all three of you, if that can happen.”

“Yes.” Freddie nods- well, Freddie would, Freddie’s the one who knows about- about things like _that_. “It can.”

John chews his lip and frowns, looking at Brian so Roger looks too. Brian chokes out, “I think” and stops there.

When Roger asks, “What does that mean?” he’s really asking if he can stay in the band and if maybe they can carry him to his own bed and let him die in peace.

John is the one who talks next. “It means- or I really, really hope it means that... all of us love each other.”

“Oh.” The revelation rips something out of his chest. Something he hadn’t known was there until now, but it feels a bit easier to breathe without it. “_Oh_.” Roger might cry. The hands holding his tighten. His head feels very heavy.

Instead of pulling away from him or him away from them, the other three’s hands gently push him back down onto the sofa.

“I think we need to have this conversation when you’re well, darling.” Brian agrees, pulling the bucket even closer with the tip of his trainer so Roger has a perfect view of where his vomit will congeal in the foreseeable future.

He thinks maybe he’s ruined it all- they won’t ever talk about this again- sooner or later they’ll stop talking altogether- and then Freddie sits down to Brian’s right and John to his left and they’re all touching each other in some way. Their hands are red hot and soothing. Roger closes his eyes. They still don’t go anywhere. He’s with it enough to know this is all real.


End file.
